


xi. but a haunting

by kapteeni



Series: ghost— [4]
Category: Gintama
Genre: Children, Gen, Immortality, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, Pre-Joui War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 17:56:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18833782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kapteeni/pseuds/kapteeni
Summary: “A god of last wishes seems like a beautiful thing to be,” Shouyou says, smiling at Zura. “But we shouldn’t force Gintoki to bear those kinds of things alone.”





	xi. but a haunting

Gintoki has developed a disturbing preoccupation with Zura’s collarbones. 

He had once been told that everyone is the same when they’re dead, but Gintoki’s spent a lot of time around skeletons and knows that it’s bullshit. Everyone’s as different dead as they are alive. 

He watches sweat pool in the hollows of Zura’s collarbones and knows that at the end of each clavicle, where they meet the sternum (so close to the heart, but not quite there), the bone will be soft and porous, like earthenware pots, none of the flaking bone that comes with growing up, or the smooth, fused bone that comes with being grown. But he likes Zura more like this, skin taut over muscle, breathing heavily, flushed from being a goody two-shoes and actually completing Shouyou’s swordsmanship regime. 

Takasugi and Gintoki are sitting in the shade, slacking off. Takasugi is pretending that he’s already finished a hundred swings, but Gintoki heard him go from twenty-five to ninety-six when Zura and Gintoki came out. Gintoki is much more honest; he doesn’t feel like doing anything, so he won’t. 

Gintoki sighs and settles his head in Takasugi’s lap. Usually Takasugi would push him off, but he must be as preoccupied with Zura as Gintoki is, and contents himself with digging a sharp elbow into Gintoki’s ear and resting his head on his hand. Takasugi has nice collarbones too, Gintoki thinks, but his skull is better. Baby fat still clings to his jaw and fills out his face, adding to his semi-permanent pout. 

Gintoki reaches one hand up and runs his thumb across Takasugi’s orbital, just beneath his left eye. 

Takasugi’s enraged scream finally brings Shouyou out to check on them. In Gintoki’s opinion, Shouyou’s got a big soft spot for Takasugi. He takes one look and sees Katsura (with his practice sword), Takasugi (with his practice sword), and Gintoki (no sword). He doesn’t even consider that Takasugi’s driven Gintoki up a tree and the only reason he’s not butchering Gintoki is because Zura’s only on swing fifty and refuses to help Takasugi climb up until he’s done. 

Shouyou sighs. He’s always claiming that he’s only human, but when he sighs, Takasugi drops his sword, Gintoki slides down the tree, and even Zura pauses mid-swing. 

“Gintoki,” he says, righteous pain lacing every syllable, “Why, , _why_ , do I always find you goofing off?” 

“I’m not goofin’ off,” Gintoki mutters, glaring at the smirking Takasugi. “An apprentice near a temple will recite the scriptures untaught, you know.” Shouyou tends to soften up whenever Gintoki makes good use of his Japanese, and idioms are his best bet right now. “I’m learning vicariously through Zura.” 

“I’m afraid you’ll ruin yourself with whatever you’re soaking in,” Shouyou says. “Scripture, huh? Perhaps if you find kendo unsuited to your mood, you can come practice your calligraphy by copying scripture?” 

Gintoki finds himself sitting on his knees in Shouyou’s private rooms, grinding his inkstick so hard against the inkstone that he knows it will come out too thick to write with. He doesn’t care. He’s mad that he even knows that the ink won’t flow off from the brush like it should, and his characters will be clumpy, and that Shouyou will look hurt because he knows Gintoki can do better, but he’ll still hang it up next to Zura’s and Takasugi’s stupid, perfect calligraphy. 

Gintoki casts a furtive glance at Shouyou, sitting as calm and composed as ever beside him, then back at the script he had given Gintoki to copy. The Heart Sutra—deceptively harsh. It contains only two-hundred and seventy characters, which the likes of Zura would be able to finish before Gintoki had wet his brush, but they were all kanji, and Gintoki hates kanji. 

Gintoki doesn’t even know the meaning of half the kanji he’s copying; more than half, in truth. Shouyou says it’s important that he learns to write them now, for when he does know the meaning. Gintoki doesn’t think that’s ever going to happen. 

At least he’s the best with swords, even if he does slack off. Takasugi’s beat him a few times, but not a lot. Nothing worth counting. Zura doesn’t even try, though they still practice together. Zura’s a lot more fun to practice with, because it’s not a competition, so Gintoki doesn’t even have to work too hard. 

Shouyou leans over to inspect his work. “Gintoki, how many times must I tell you: write top to bottom, horizontal to vertical, outside in. You can’t draw the components inside before the one outside.” 

“But then nothing on the inside fits,” Gintoki complains. 

“That’s why we practice,” Shouyou says, and gives Gintoki a fresh piece of paper. 

“You can’t even tell the difference.” 

“I assure you that I can.” 

“Well, I can’t.” Gintoki drops his brush. He hates writing, he _hates_ it. He hates writing and reading and theology and math. He hates school. He misses wandering around the country with Shouyou, without having to worry too much about grammar or etiquette or how to wash off a calligraphy brush without ruining the bristles. He knows it’s stupid even as his mind wraps around the thought. Essentially, the very first thing Shouyou had taught him was the kanji for his name, and whenever they happened upon a town, he had bought ink before he bought rice. 

Shouyou sighs. “If you don’t learn the proper stroke order now, it’ll be that much harder when you move onto cursive. No one will be able to tell what you’ve written. Bad habits are more easily ingrained than good ones.” 

Gintoki pulls his knees up to his chest. “Who cares. I’m not gonna write in cursive anyway. Only rich kids need to learn that. And I don’t need to know the stupid Heart Sutra either. I’m not a monk, and I’m not gonna—” 

Shouyou pulls Gintoki onto his lap. “Is this what you’re worried about, Gintoki?” he murmurs into Gintoki’s hair, so quietly that Gintoki isn’t sure he is meant to hear. “Who told you that?” he asks, louder but still in that low, calm voice of his. As he leans down, his hair falls in a veil around Gintoki’s face. It smells like the herbs Shouyou likes to mix into the water pulled from the river, heated with stones from the center of the irori hearth fire. 

“No one told me,” Gintoki says. “But it’s true, isn’t it? All that I’m good at is fighting. I’m not high-class like Takasugi or smart like Zura, so why should I bother learning anything else?” He twists around and looks up at Shouyou’s face. He’s making an expression that Gintoki can’t decipher. He hates it when Shouyou does that. He knows that Gintoki’s bad at reading faces, and then he goes and makes it harder. 

“What do you think you’re going to do when you’re older?” Shouyou asks. 

“Isn’t it obvious? When we grow up, Takasugi’s going to be a…a lord, or whatever, a daimyo or a shogun, whichever is higher up—” 

“The Shogun.” 

“—’cause he was born into it, you know. And Zura’s gonna be sitting at his right hand making plans and sh—crap. And I’ll be…” Gintoki chews his lip. It’s not as bad as when he was a kid, but he still runs out of words sometimes. He gestures, flinging an arm outward. “I’ll be…out. Fighting. I’ll be the sword from their words.” 

Shouyou rests his chin on the top of Gintoki’s head. Gintoki can feel his chest rise and fall with each breath, the vibration in his throat as he hums to himself, thinking. It’s the tune that Takasugi’s been trying to learn on the shamisen. Gintoki had threatened to break the instrument over Takasugi’s head if he played it again. He had had to do sums for a whole hour as punishment, and Takasugi had sat behind him and played the whole time. 

“Sakata Gintoki,” Shouyou says. “Do you remember what I said to you the day we first met?” 

“Yeah,” Gintoki replies. “You said, ‘Hey, are you the corpse-eater?’” 

Shouyou laughs. “Yes, but after that.” 

“You told me that ‘a sword swung in self-defense, while fearing others, should be thrown away,’” Gintoki recites in a sing-song. “And then you threw your sword at me.” 

“That’s right,” Shouyou says. “So have you thought of a reason to swing your sword yet?” 

Gintoki shakes his head. He has thought about this, but if fighting wasn’t for self-defense, the only other purpose he could think of to take up the sword was to harm others. He doesn’t think that’s the answer Shouyou is looking for. 

“What about when you fight with Shinsuke and Kotarou?” 

“It’s practice,” Gintoki says. At least it is with Zura. With Takasugi it usually is self-defense. Though not necessarily Gintoki’s. “So we can get better.” 

“And why is it important for you to get better?” 

Gintoki has a sinking feeling that this is going to lead back to doing calligraphy. He looks at his feet, curling his toes. “So I don’t get hurt?” That’s another thing Shouyou always says. Practice while you can, so you don’t need to when you can’t. 

“You want to be able to protect yourself,” Shouyou says. 

Gintoki opens his mouth to say that yes, he does, then shuts it, because that’s no different than self-defense. He looks up. Shouyou’s face is serene enough to make Gintoki suspicious. Maybe the answer is in the ‘while fearing others;’ he supposes that practicing now would help calm fears during the real thing, but that doesn’t feel like the answer that Shouyou’s looking for either, no more than killing. 

He can hear Zura and Takasugi play-fighting outside. They’re boring to watch, because they’re each trying to out-think the other. They treat sword-fighting like a game of shogi, rather than something that could be life or death. Gintoki’s seen them take stances and then stare at each other for ten minutes while they each calculate the advantages and disadvantages of making the first move. 

Gintoki isn’t just trying to avoid his punishment. He really does think that he’ll end up back on the battlefield, and that Zura and Takasugi will be far, far away. He scoots out of Shouyou’s lap and back to the low table. He picks up his brush and presses his thumb into the middle, fanning out the bristles. Ink smears across the pad of his thumb and drips down into the creases between his fingers. 

“Gintoki,” Shouyou says. 

Gintoki hunches over and scribbles two characters, avoiding Shouyou’s gaze. _Youbutsu_ , he writes, using the characters for ‘male’ and ‘thing.’

Shouyou peers over Gintoki’s shoulder. “Ah,” he says, sounding out the word. “The way of _yang_. Your guesses are becoming more esoteric, Gintoki.” 

“Huh?” 

Shouyou points at each character as he talks, taking care not to smear the wet ink. “You know the first character from my name. Sho _you_ and _you_ butsu. I told you meant sunshine, but he can refer to masculine energy as well. And of course, _butsu_ just means thing. And so ‘male’ and ‘thing’ combine to make _yang_.” 

Gintoki frowns at his writing. Takasugi had told him that it meant ‘dick.’ He had laughed because that meant Shouyou’s name had a dick in it; if the character for dick was the same as the one for sunshine, it meant that Shouyou meant ‘pine tree dick,’ which was just plain funny. 

“But of course you knew that,” Shouyou continues. “I imagine you mean that one has to balance differing aspects of oneself in order to raise one’s sword in a real battle. Perhaps the desire to protect and the desire to harm, or the difference between careful calculation and fighting with instinct and emotion. Both are required to be a successful warrior.” 

“You read my mind, sensei.”

Shouyou gestures around his room. “What are these?” he asks. 

Gintoki looks around. Most of the walls in the school are hung with long strips of paper that display the students’ calligraphy, some of it Gintoki’s, but Shouyou keeps a lot of Gintoki’s work in his own room. Shouyou’s gesture had encompassed everything from the large strips of rice paper with block script, to the smaller wooden and hemp-cloth stuff that Gintoki had labored over until his hand was cramped and his eyes were blurry. 

Gintoki wonders if Shouyou has caught another fever. “My homework?” Gintoki says. 

“And what kind of things do you write on your homework?” 

“Uh,” Gintoki says. “Words? Kanji? Scripture, my name, your name, yojijukugo, the days of the week, nature stuff—“ 

“Words, yes,” Shouyou says. “And words have their own powers. Do you remember how Japan was created?”

Gintoki rocks back on his heels. “C’mon, sensei, give me a break.” 

Shouyou smiles down at Gintoki. “We were reviewing this last week.”

Gintoki scratches the back of his neck. “Um, so there were a bunch of gods, right, and they all said, ‘Okay, you and you, go create an island, so they did. And then because they had already like, made it, they decided to move in. And then the guy was like, ‘What’s up with you?’ and his wife was like, ‘I’m an innie,’ and he was like ‘Weird. But I’m an outie, so let's take a walk and when we see each other again we can fu—we can knock you up.” 

“A perfect rendition of the essential points, Gintoki. Thank you,” Shouyou says. “Yes—after the Seven Generations of the Gods emerged, they, in unison, commanded that the god Izanagi and the goddess Izanami complete and solidify the drifting land of earth; it was those words that granted Izanagi and Izanami the power to create Onogoro Island. Words, Gintoki, in the same language that we speak now.” 

Gintoki stares down at his bare feet. There is dirt under his nails and between his toes, and a mosquito bite on his ankle. As soon as he sees it, it starts to itch. 

Shouyou continues, “Afterwards, they descended to the new island. There, Izanagi asked his wife, ‘How is your body formed?’ and she replied, ‘My body, formed though it be, has one place which is formed insufficiently.’ Izanagi thought about her words, and replied, ‘My body, formed though it be, has one place which is formed to excess. Therefore, I would like to take that place in my body which is formed to excess and insert it into that place in your body—Gintoki, your attempts to cover your laughter is appreciated, but please do it with something politer than a yawn—which is formed insufficiently, and thus give birth to the land. How would this be?’ Izanami gave her assent, and Izunagi declared that they should walk around the heavenly pillar, and have conjugal relations where they met. However, when Izanami saw her husband, she cried, ‘ _Ana-ni-yasu_ , what a fair—’ no, that was not the kind of greeting I used as a child, I am not, in fact, as old as creation—‘a fair and loveable youth.’ Izanagi greeted her in return, but said that it boded ill that she spoke first. And indeed, their first two children were deformed, and it was only after they repeated the marriage ceremony and it was Izanagi who first spoke that they were able to create the islands of Japan.” 

“And after Izanami died while giving birth to the fire goddess, Izanagi sought after her in hell. But at the sight of her corpse, he ran from her. Izanami chased after him, but Izanagi rolled a boulder in between hell and earth and trapped his wife there. Betrayed, Izanami said, ‘Oh my beloved husband, if you do thus, I will each day strangle to death one thousand of the people in your country.’ To this, Izanagi replied, ‘Oh my beloved spouse, if you do thus, I will each day build a thousand five hundred birthing huts.’ And this is the reason why one thousand people inevitably die and one thousand five hundred people are inevitably born each day. Do you know why I am telling you this, Gintoki?”

“I forgot about a quiz tomorrow and you’re helping me study?”

“Because words have power,” Shouyou says. “A misspoken greeting was once able to cast blight even upon gods. One curse is the reason humans die, and a quick rebuttal is why we live on. Words created Japan—did you know it was once called ‘the land where the mysterious workings of language bring bliss?’” 

Gintoki shakes his head. 

Shouyou softens, a bit. “Positive words bring good fortune, and negative words bring misfortune. Imagine two sick children born into two families. One child is not expected to live for long. The doctor tells the father that the child will die, and the father tells the mother that the child will die, and the mother tells the child that he will die. The other child is born equally sick. The doctor tells the father that the child will die, but the father says, ‘He will live.’ He tells the mother, ‘Our son is ill but he will live.’ The mother tells the child, ‘You are strong and will live until your hair is grey and your back is stooped.’ Which child do you think is going to live?” 

“That’s not a fair question,” Gintoki protests. “It’s obvious that the second parents liked their kid more, so they’ll try a little harder. Them saying it didn’t _do_ anything.” 

“Have you ever felt unable to do something until you said to yourself, ‘Gintoki, you have to start now?’ Words bring ideas and feelings into fruition.” He gestures around at the rows of Gintoki’s calligraphy. “What kind of feelings do these words invoke?”

“Good ones, I guess?” Gintoki says, uncertain. He hadn’t been thinking good thoughts when he wrote them, but there can’t be anything negative about things like ‘water’ or ‘different body; same mind.’ And scripture is pretty benign by definition. 

“Come, Gintoki,” Shouyou says, “Let us take a walk.” He leads Gintoki to the school’s front door and points at the frame. “What’s this?”

Gintoki eyes it. “I think Takasugi might have been trying to see if he could cut off a fly’s wings with his sword,” he says magnanimously. “They certainly can’t be his height.”

“Not the scratches,” Shouyou says, though he gives Gintoki a look that means he won’t forget them, now that he’s realized they’re there. He reaches up and tugs on the thick rope hanging above the door. It’s such a part of the scenery Gintoki hadn’t even noticed it. 

“Oh,” Gintoki says. “That’s the sacred rope.”

“A shimenawa,” Shouyou agrees. “And what is its purpose?”

Gintoki shrugs. “Religion,” he says derisively. “To bring good luck or ward off bad luck or something.” 

“It is a boundary between the sacred and the profane,” Shouyou says. “You seem very skeptical.” He ruffles Gintoki’s hair. “Most only speak so casually about gods and spirits if they believe they do not exist. But you know better, don’t you?”

Gintoki shrugs again. Sometimes his life before Shouyou seems very distant. 

“Do you remember when we made this, Gintoki?” Shouyou asks. “We cleaned our first school inside out, and then we consecrated it and made it a temple to learning.” He takes Gintoki’s small hands in his own. “You wove this rope with these hands. You made something powerful enough to separate good and evil.” 

Gintoki pulls his hands away. “What’s the big deal, sensei?” 

“You said that Shinsuke and Kotarou are destined for the roles they will play in life,” Shouyou says. “That they were born to them. My Gintoki,” and he squats down so he is eye-to-eye with Gintoki. “My sweet Gintoki. You were also born for great things. You must never forget that.” 

Gintoki looks at Shouyou. Looks at the man who had once took his hand and pulled him from the depths of hell, the man who had seen him at his very worst and found something redeemable. Back then, Gintoki had looked at his long hair and his pale, unscarred skin, and thought that he must he weak. But Shouyou’s watching Gintoki, laugh lines wrinkling the corners of his eyes, the hems of his haori frayed but clean, and Gintoki can only say, dry-mouthed, “Sensei?” 

“You are not a demon,” Shouyou says. “Not a monster, not a devil. You’re a god, Gintoki, and you can be whatever you choose to be.” He pulls Gintoki into a hug. Gintoki’s feet slip on the polished wooden floors as he stumbles forward, and he ends up tripping, falling to his knees in front of Shouyou. Shouyou wraps his arms around Gintoki and rubs circles into his back. “It’s alright,” he says, as Gintoki buries his face into the curve between Shouyou’s neck and shoulder. “Doubt yourself. Lose your way. Become what you want to be.” 

Takasugi tells him, much, much later, “The kids from town are calling you a monster again.” The three of them are laying in the tall grass outside the school, spreadeagled and sweaty after kendo. He can’t see Zura or Takasugi through the grass, but Gintoki’s left arm is stretched out, and he can feel the matching touch of Zura’s fingertips. The sun beats down on them, and when Gintoki closes his eyes, he can see the dancing image of the light projected onto his eyelids. 

“Well?” Gintoki says. He’s used to things worse than monster, and so is Takasugi. 

“After that last stunt you pulled,” Takasugi says, “I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t lie.” Takasugi’s tone is mocking; he could lie, and they both know it, but he wants to goad Gintoki into a reaction. 

“Then don’t,” Gintoki tries, but Zura is, rather shrilly, speaking up over him and saying, “I should hope that you told them that they were stupid for thinking it.” 

Zura, Gintoki thinks, can sound like an old woman sometimes. An old biddy with lots of grandchildren who spends her time weaving baskets and gossiping. 

“Well, he’s not a fucking human, is he?” Takasugi says. 

“That doesn’t mean he’s a monster,” Zura says. 

Gintoki squeezes his eyes shut. 

“There’s not a whole lot of in between, is there?” Takasugi says, voice dry. 

“Well, he’s not a monster,” Zura snaps. “If anything, you are for saying so. Isn’t that right, Gintoki?”

“I’ve got a monster _something_ ,” Gintoki mumbles, putting his arm across his eyes. “If you want to fight over it, go—” Zura’s arm flails through the grass and hits him. Takasugi laughs, though it’s muffled, as if he’s covering his mouth. 

“Monsters aren’t nice,” Zura continues. “My grandmother used to say they make children’s eyeballs into soup. Gintoki’s never done that.” 

“It’d take too many kids to fill him up,” Takasugi says. “He’s a pig. I know you give him your leftovers, Zura. You know Sensei says you need to eat more.”

“I don’t think monsters have anything human left in them,” Zura declares, ignoring Takasugi’s mothering. 

“Except in their stomachs,” Takasugi says. 

“I’m not—” Gintoki tries. He swallows, starts again. “It’s not like I’m a great person, Zura.” 

“Fuck off,” Takasugi groans. “Enough whining.”

Gintoki props himself up on an elbow and turns in Takasugi’s direction. “Like you’re one to talk,” he says, and mimics Takasugi’s low voice, “‘Oh, Gintoki, you’ll never understand father figures ‘cause you’ve never had a real dad, unlike me, who had a shitty one.’” He falls back, and reaches his hand back towards Zura’s. 

“Die, Gintoki.”

“Just because you’re a _shitty_ person doesn’t mean you’re not a person,” Zura says. “It’s like…like a species thing, right? Like obviously, fish and octopus aren’t related, even though they both live in the sea, and spiders and octopus are. We have to go by common characteristics.” 

Gintoki and Takasugi are silent as they try and work themselves through Zura’s logic. 

Eventually, Gintoki asks, “Are you calling me an octopus?” 

“Yes!” Zura says. “Like, maybe you don’t have everything a spider does, and you come from the same place that fish do, and you’re a lot better to eat—”

Takasugi snorts. 

“—but ultimately, you’re a lot more spider than fish.” 

“Zura, what the _hell_ are you talking about?” Gintoki asks. Takasugi’s laughter is getting on his nerves. “What the fuck are the spiders and fish?”

“Spiders are humans and fish are monsters,” Zura says patiently, as if this is all obvious. “You’ve got to be a lot more human than you are monster, because you look more like one.” 

Gintoki considers this. “So what’s an octopus?”

“You know, Sensei thinks you’re a god?” Zura pauses, but when it’s clear Gintoki’s not going to say anything, he continues, “If you’re a god, or whatever, what are you a god of?”

Zura’s tone means he’s angling for one of _those_ conversations, the kind they have late at night under the stars where Takasugi talks about his father and Zura about his grandma. Now that he thinks about it, they’ve probably been having one of those conversations for awhile now, and he’s only just cottoned on, but Zura’s voice is too kind and the question makes Gintoki feel sick, so he pretends not to have heard. 

Zura’s fingers curl in his. “Gintoki?” 

“Dunno,” Gintoki says, and shrugs, though no one can see it. “Probably war or death or something. S’not like it matters.” 

Zura’s hand leaves his, and Gintoki can hear him rolling onto his side. The grass between them parts, and Zura’s looking at him with that damned earnest expression of his. His hair is trapped under his arm, and the grass stems above them leave speckled shadows on his skin. There’s still sweat at his hairline. “It does matter,” he says. “My grandmother said the gods are the luckiest of creatures, because they alone have a meaning for their existence.” 

“What kind of folk wisdom was your grandma spewing?” Gintoki closes his eyes. “Then I’m the unluckiest god. C’mon, drop it, Zura.” 

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Takasugi says. “No one’s going to feel sorry for you. Your hysterics are, frankly, tiring.” 

“Ah, you’re breaking my heart,” Gintoki calls back. “Those kind of remarks go straight to my backstory, you know.” 

“That can’t be it, because I think we’re lucky to have you around,” Zura says, with the kind of unashamed honesty that can only come from Zura. Gintoki turns his face away to hide his blush. 

“If this is going to be a Gintoki wankfest,” Takasugi says. “Have the decency to wait until I’m gone. If you’re seriously asking, Zura, isn’t it obvious that he’s the patron of sweet-toothed idiots and perm-heads?” 

“You’re a hundred years too early to make fun of me. You’re far too short to touch my ego,” Gintoki says. “Come back when you can reach some decent insults.”

“Maybe the god of bad manners?” Zura says, and reaches forward to twirl a finger in Gintoki’s hair. It’s getting long now, curling at the nape of his neck; he’ll have to ask Shouyou to cut it soon. Gintoki bats Zura’s hand away. “Not war, that has to be taken already. And not death, because we’d have noticed if you were a shinigami.” 

“How?” Gintoki asks, with interest. 

“Perhaps,” Zura says, studying Gintoki’s face, “A god of last wishes?” 

“What are you going on about, Zura?” A fly lands on Gintoki’s knee, and he swats at it. Gintoki’s fast, and the heat is making even the flies lazy. He flicks the corpse in Takasugi’s direction. 

Zura beams at him. “What’s the most common last wish?” 

Gintoki shrugs again. “Not to die, probably.” 

“Mine’s for you two to shut up,” Takasugi says.

Zura ignores both of them. “They want someone to remember them,” he says. “And that’s why you were born.” 

“So my purpose is to remember some stupid dead people?” Gintoki pulls a face. “That’s dumb. If someone’s got the time to be making that kind of last wish, they should have been living in a way that’d let them be remembered in the first place.” He stretches his hand upwards, blocking the glare of the sun with his palm. “They don’t have to go around making up new gods to do a thing like that.” 

Zura’s giving him a pitying look. Gintoki’s used to a certain amount of pity. The schoolchildren who speak longingly of their parents and only know that Shouyou is not his real father give him—and Zura and Takasugi, sometimes—guilty looks and change the subject. Zura traces the raised outlines of faded scars with too-clean fingers. Even Takasugi, who has to be cajoled into any emotion more generous than background malice, plays Gintoki’s ribs like temple blocks and sometimes gives Zura his extra rice, knowing full well that Zura will pass it on to Gintoki. But he’s not used to pity like this, the unbearable kindness in Zura’s eyes that says he doesn’t expect Gintoki to ever understand it. 

Gintoki gets to his feet, the palms of his hands digging into the dead grass and sticks as he pushes himself upright. “Why does it matter anyway? If humans don’t know their purpose, why does it have to matter so much for me?” 

“Gintoki—” Zura starts, and Shouyou says, “There you all are. Come in and wash up before we eat.” He’s standing in the knee-deep grass just in front of them, hands clasped behind his back. Gintoki wonders how he was able to get this close without any of them hearing. 

Behind him, Takasugi is pulling Zura to his feet, and Zura’s brushing sticks out of his hair. 

“A god of last wishes seems like a beautiful thing to be,” Shouyou says, smiling at Zura. “But we shouldn’t force Gintoki to bear those kinds of things alone.” 

Zura bows his head. “Sorry, sensei.” 

“You three must always be there for each other,” Sensei continues. “You will face many difficulties in your lives, but burdens are easier to bear when they are spread among three sets of shoulders.”

“Us four,” Takasugi says, the suck-up. Beside him, Zura nods vigorously. 

Shouyou smiles. “Hurry up and wash,” he says. 

Gintoki hangs behind with Shouyou after Takasugi and Zura run off. Without really meaning to, he reaches up and grasps Shouyou’s hand. “It won’t work, will it?” he asks. 

“Please take care of them for me, okay?” Shouyou says, squatting down in front of Gintoki. He holds out his pinky finger. “Let’s make it a promise.” 

“Sensei?”

“Yes?”

“Are octopus and spiders related?” 

Shouyou frowns. “I don’t believe so.” 

Gintoki pauses, rocking back on his heels. He turns to Shouyou. “Alright,” he says, and entwines their pinkies. “But you have to give me a piggyback ride.”


End file.
